The Cases and Deductions of Writings: 12MontagueStreet Chronicles
by Project X
Summary: Have you ever met Sherlock Holmes? He's like chaos. Untouchable, inescapable, and never ending. What is the only thing that can follow chaos? Disaster. Sometimes I just call it D. -Hiatus-
1. A Study at Midnight

_Beta-ed by FoxMewBrittany_

"_**The Cases and Deductions of Writings"**_

**12MontagueStreet Chronicles**

**Prologue: **_'A Study At Midnight'_

He was playing his violin again. I turned over and looked at my alarm clock. It was one o'clock in the morning. I groaned and stuffed my pillow over my head. Feather pillows, however, are not the best at insulating noise. I took a deep breath and turned over again, now facing the wall.

He comes in at midnight, sometimes breaks things or throws things then starts playing his violin, making it sound like a screeching bird, when I know good and well he can play the violin and make it sound as smooth and beautiful as a clear flowing stream. It all depends on his mood. Not that my guitar sounds any different when I play while I'm pissed, the difference is I'm not doing that in the middle of the night.

Sooner or later, if he doesn't stop doing that he's gonna get kicked out of the building, or better yet banned from Montague Street altogether. It's not like I know him, or that I care, it's just….

I sighed and rolled out of my bed as dramatically as possible. I'd only been in my apartment, no _excuse me_ they're called flats here, for a little over three months. And ever since I moved in I've heard my _across-the-hall-neighbor's_ violin at least once everyday. I come home from the University, start doing research or sit down to read, and then all of a sudden I'll hear some melodious melody or some piece of classical chords being played by the night owl. I could never name any of the pieces, but I still find them extraordinary nonetheless.

I envied my neighbor; I wished I could play my guitar like he plays his violin. I'm nothing but an amateur with a hobby, but getting better everyday. _'Yeah, be hopeful, lying to yourself is SO good for your mental health.'_

So when I get up, throw on a black bathrobe, and walk barefooted to my door, I'm not doing it to complain, I'm doing it to warn him. Also, if I said I wasn't just a little curious about him I'd be lying. Three months and I hadn't seen him once, just heard him. He talks to himself a lot- no, wait; I heard from Anya he actually talks to a skull. '_What is he, Shakespeare?'_ Point is, as I open my door, my auburn hair a mess, my eyes still sleepy, I peer across the hall, trying to gather my courage to knock on his door.

I blink, and there I am, flat 12, my flat being 11, at his door, fisted hand up. I take a deep breath and knock. The screeching violin sounding from the other side of the door abruptly stops. I hear heavy stomping footfalls and then the door is opening and I get an eyeful of tall, dark haired, sharp cheekboned, blue robed, neighbor. His eyes are amazing! And suddenly my hands desperately itched for a paintbrush and a case of cool colors.

"What?" He snaps, voice low and aggressive. He leans in and straightens his back like a jungle cat, ready to pounce. Anger and frustration were clearly drawn out all over his face.

His mood was of no surprise to me. I had heard him arguing with neighbor after neighbor every morning about his concerts during the night. This man hated idiots, a statement he repeated constantly. And while usually I would ignore someone like him, as his anger reminded me too much of my uncle, _and a bit of myself_, I did slightly agree with him about our fellow tenants. Not that I'm stating I'm a genius, just a slightly above average intelligence, and that they're clearly all _nutters_.

Still, that was not the point! I was here to ask him, politely, to stop.

"Mister Holmes right?" I hold out my hand but he just looks down at it as if it's a disgusting piece of trash. I roll my eyes and put my hand back in my robe pocket. Of course, no politeness from him either, again I wasn't surprised. "I'm here to ask you to please stop playing in the middle of the night. I understand that it's your outlet for your negative mood. My guitar is the same. But if your don't stop the landlord, to the sheer joy of our fellow tenants, will evict you." I explained in the most understanding and authoritative tone I could muster while in a bathrobe standing in my neighbor's doorway at one o'clock in the morning. _'Only my life.'_

"You like my playing." He replied smugly, arms crossed over his chest. I raised a brow at him and tilted my head.

"How did you-"

He sighed, exasperated. "It's obvious." I gave him a look, which I hope was deadpan serious, however from his reaction I don't think that's how it turned out. "You didn't ask me to stop playing completely, just during the night. The only reason you would concern yourself with my eviction, since we have never meant, is if you enjoy my playing." He explained, in the utmost sure tone, while looking down his nose at me.

Okay, so yeah, I enjoyed hearing him play when I got home. It was the perfect ambience for either my research or for while I'm working on my novel. But should I really help inflate the horribly tremendous ego he clearly already has? I looked at him, really looked at the man; if I tried to lie he'd know. Do I really want his first impression of me to be that I'm an awful liar?

I took a deep breath and scratched my scalp, bits of auburn hair falling from the rat nest that was my bedhead. "Yeah, yeah, don't let it go to your head maestro." There, I admitted it, but with my dignity still intact.

"You're American."

Well that came out of left field. I sighed, truly exhausted after grading tests most of all day. "If we're going to have a conversation, is it too much to ask if I can come in and sit down?" I pleaded, but firmly. _'Even though I really shouldn't, but hey he's not gonna let me sleep anyway.'_

Holmes nodded and opened the door wider. So maybe he wasn't a complete jerk, just to people that either piss him off or are complete idiots. I could understand that. I was all for team Overly Eccentric. '_Whoa, terminal insanity!'_

His flat was almost identical to mine, except there was no TV in the living room and the fact it was so cluttered I could barely see the floor. I knew the carpet was beige though, so no need to see it anyway. My flat wasn't posh or clean either, but at least I could walk around in my own living room freely. '_Yesh!'_

The faint smell of nicotine filled cigarette smoke lingered in the air. I could see the pack he was just smoking on his coffee table, right next to Hamlet the skull. As I walked in I walked over to the dark blue couch scooted over to the right wall, carefully. I felt like I was navigating a minefield of books, papers, and…. _police files_?

'_What the heck does this guy do for a living? He's no cop! No way! Not at the hours I hear him puttering around in here.'_ I ponder as I slide onto the couch, keeping my eyes on the open file lying on a stack of books on the floor. I can read only moderately accurately upside down, so I was having a bit of a time-

"American." Holmes came in close behind; I could feel his gaze on me the whole time. He then tried to reinitiate our discussion from before as soon as he was seated adjacent from me in an armchair.

"Oh!" I startled into sitting up. "Yeah, just moved here three months ago. This building was the cheapest place I could find while I started looking for a job."

"A professor at the university then?" He asked so nonchalantly you would have thought he read it from my personal government file, or _something_.

I would have been freaked out, had I not found his ability so interesting. How did he keep doing that? It certainly wasn't on my underwear. Which, if he can actually read minds, I hope he didn't just see me imagining him looking at my underwear. '_UHG!'_

"Yeah, Professor Knight, Professor Kyle Knight, teacher of the Creative Arts English class at London University." I mimicked James Bond for my official introduction to Mister Holmes. Yes, because I'm just that _geeky_. Now if only he'd tell me _his_ first name.

"You're a novelist working on your first book. You thought perhaps London would hold the inspiration you needed to write. But as of yet you have not found that inspiration. You're only a part time professor at the University, giving you plenty of time to work on your book, which is over due, and your publisher is threatening to cut you off if he doesn't see the beginning of a manuscript by next month."

I gaped at the man, my jaw on the floor. "How…how did you do that?" I looked at him, astonished, wide-awake now. I felt like how I did when reading an Agatha Christie novel, hanging off his every word.

"I observed, Miss Knight, I simply deduced the obvious." He replied with a shrug, as he grabbed his violin again, tilting it against his neck, plucking a few cords with his long fingers.

"No but," I paused, my mind spinning. "That was amazing, I'd call you an eavesdropper but I've never talked about my work here before. Unless you've been talking to my publisher." Which I highly doubted; if Lionel saw a guy like him he would be talking my ear off about it. He'd have tweeted me a picture, saying he'd found his new crush. "You gotta tell me how you did that! And no 'a magician never reveals his secrets' bull crap."

"I do not attempt to create great illusions Miss Knight, I simply use my eyes and think." He stated it as if it was easy, something anyone could do.

'_Well, I'll take a crack at it then.' _I thought and sent Holmes a challenging stare; he sent me a _go-on-then_ look right back, as if he understood my gaze. "Why do you air the cigarette smoke out of your flat?" My eyes shifted to the open window beside me. "I know it's not because your worried the other tenants will complain." Otherwise he would stop playing in the middle of the night. Wasn't this whole visit about that anyway? My ADHD must be getting to me again. "You concerned someone that worries about you might find out that you've been smoking?" Holmes looked at me with a tilted head, an interested but pleased expression on his face, almost as if he was saying _'yes, very well, go on'_. So I did.

"I've seen at least two different guys coming into your apartm- _flat_ from time to time, not including the landlord. One of them was more discreet then the other, eerily…um _suspicious_. The other I know is DI Lestrade, I've seen him on the news before. So the suspicious one must be related to you, too old to be a father or an uncle, and you yell at him far too much for him to be a cousin. He's your older brother then, I'd recognize horrible sibling rivalry anywhere." I leaned back, images of Allen and me when we were kids, fighting almost constantly, going through my head.

"He's the reason you're airing out your flat. He must get on to you about the smoking." _'He must drive you absolutely mad for you to actually listen to him. Or for you to trick him into thinking you listen at least.'_ I suspected, a yawn slinking from my throat slowly. My brain was ecstatically whirling with thought but my body was so tired. I let my eyes slip closed but even then I knew Holmes was still looking at me, I could practically feel his gaze and it's intensity.

"You must be some kind of detective," I went on. "Not full time and I don't think they'd hire you part time either. So maybe the DI trusts you enough to ask for advice on the case that that file is about?" Without looking I pointed to the file lying on the books in front of me, stating my last sentence a bit like a question because I wasn't too sure. "But correct me if I'm wrong, I'm new to deduction…or at least deducing out loud anyway." My muscles started to relax and I found myself slipping under as I sat on his couch. Completely at ease in someone else's presence. _'Well, this is a first.'_

"Correct, I am the world's only consulting detective." He says this proudly; I could practically hear the smugness roll off him in waves.

"One more question." I raise my hand like I was back in grade school again. My brain and thoughts were starting to become too fuzzy with fatigue to think straight.

I heard the man sigh exasperatedly but he relented. He was obviously loving the attention, he was just trying _and failing_ to hide it.

"What the bloody_ hell_ is your first name?" I turned and lay down horizontally on the couch slowly, _just chill'n_. A small cushion under my head, sleep swimming around me putting my mind into a fog, no wonder I didn't question falling asleep on this man's couch.

"Sherlock." The name went in through my ears then got stuck into my brain with crazy-_obsession_- glue. Slowly, as I felt my consciousness sink under into inky blackness, I heard a sweet melody. Most likely from a violin that I was supposed to stop from being played during the night to begin with. Oh well, I couldn't bring myself to care now, it sounded so soothing and it put me right into a deep sleep.

Oddly enough, that night, I found myself dreaming about following a tall dark haired man through an M.C. Escher labyrinth. It wasn't 'till morning that I actually realized I had fallen asleep on Sherlock Holmes'; the world's only consulting detective's, couch.

'_Well… bugger, there's a first impression for you.'_

**-X-**

**Author's Notes: **_I know, the beginning sucks, but hold on, next chapter I'll unravel a whole lot more plot! Promise!_

_This is my idea of a pre-John, why Sherlock needed company, fic. On his website, The Science of Deduction, Sherlock says he lives on Montague Street before Baker Street. Well, a writer, whom you will find, is my in-universe insert of a female version of Sir Author Conan Doyle, meets Sherlock and becomes mystified by him. After meeting him and going on a case with him she begins to write about his adventures._

_If I get to it, she is also a painter; she paints the skull painting Sherlock has up in the living room of Baker Street. She nicknames the skull Hamlet, gives Sherlock the idea to start a website, and teaches Sherlock he can manipulate women with compliments, which he later uses almost constantly on Molly… and several other things I can think of._

_If you have any favorite cases throw them my way and I'll write them. I plan on doing the Green Ladder case from Sherlock's website, the one Sherlock was working on as he's kicked out of Montague Street. _

**For Those of You Who Read Lots of my Work; an FYI: **_No I'm not dead, yes I've been writing, I've been working on an original piece, once called "The Immortal; Blood Born" now called "The Immortal Wanderer; the 7__th__ billion born". I've been super busy with that and school, also with possible recruiters. I'm planning on working on an OC centric drabble collections for the Doctor Who 50__th__ anniversary! Boy I'm SO excited for that! Bought me a vortex manipulator, trans temporal sonic screwdriver, and a WhoLock shirt for the occasion!_


	2. The Sign of Two: Part 1

_Beta-ed by FoxMewBrittany_

"_**The Cases and Deductions of Writings"**_

**12MontagueStreet Chronicles**

**Chapter 1:** _'The Sign of Two' -_Part 1-

Falling asleep on a strange man's couch isn't the weirdest thing I've ever done. Mixing cheese and peanut butter is still number one on that list, but I thought, when the sun began to beam down on my face, that it would be more awkward then it was, waking up on his couch. To tell the truth I should have been terrified, but oddly I wasn't.

He was on his laptop when I woke up; he looked as if he hadn't slept a wink the night before. My mind was still foggy; at first all I was registering was the sunlight in my face, the pillow under my head, and the warm wool covers over me.

But since when do covers have sleeves? And since when has there been windows in my bedroom?

So when I stretched to get up and saw him, really actually saw him, and everything sunk in, I panicked. I moved what I presumed to be his coat off of me and tensed up. I clenched my teeth and breathed through my nose so that I didn't throw up, a tight clenching and hot churning feeling suddenly in my stomach. I swallowed thickly, regretting it as the taste of morning breath struck me full force.

When I finally shot up into a sitting position, the dark haired man whipped his head around to look at me, expression as if he had forgotten I was here. I could feel the hot deep blush of embarrassment forming on my face.

'_Brilliant! Just brilliant! Years of PPD and now this!'_ I sighed intensely and went to stretch and pop both my arms, a strange _traditional_ thing I do every morning. I looked up after, trying not to look the man across from me in the eye. "So," I tried to sound calm but my voice shook just a bit. "I fell asleep on your couch."

"Yes," The mouse pad clicked, his laptop in his lap as he typed in something on Quest Search. "You did." He didn't sound like he cared, he just had this tone like _'so what? not a big deal_'. Holmes just seemed completely concentrated on what he was working on; I can understand that, while writing I'm like a brick wall.

'_Oh wait, that's right, I learned his first name last night.'_ I thought back to it, the conversation we had had last night. It wasn't a very long one, but more was said then just through the words that were uttered._ 'Sherlock.'_

I sighed and carefully stood up, my back aching as I put pressure on my legs. I tried to straiten up my spine but when I did something popped and my neck started to throb. I hissed in pain and put force on my hips as I tilted my back up. It popped again and the pain went away. _'I'm getting too old for the couch.'_ I griped at myself as my body reminded me of my age. Twenty-seven and I was already losing the skip in my step. Shows how well I took care of myself in my younger age.

I rolled my shoulders and listened to the clicking of keys. "So," I paused, having popped my shoulders twice already. "You don't mind that I slept on your couch? I didn't keep you from sleeping did I?" I asked politely, finally putting my nervous hands in my black bathrobe pockets.

Sherlock still didn't look up from his computer. He just stated _"No" _very blandly and very quickly. I shrugged, no skin off my back. _'Well...'_

"Okay…" I bit my lower lip lightly. I knew staying was just making me more manic as the seconds ticked by, but something about this man fascinated me. It felt… inspiring, the rush I got from hearing his deductions. Just the type of inspiration I needed for my book. "So," I needed to stop saying that. "What time is it?" It couldn't be late, could it? It had to be around seven; I never could sleep in anymore. From the little bit of sunlight coming from in the windows I could at least tell it was morning.

"Nine thirty-five." I heard that bland tone again, and suddenly I wished desperately to hear the voice this man had used while interested.

His words didn't sink in 'till five seconds later. My eyes widened and I gaped. "SHIT!" I exclaimed and I heard Sherlock jump slightly in his chair, he apparently wasn't expecting me to say that. He looked up and by then I was running out his door, yelling: "I'm gonna be late!"

I ran back into my flat, making sure not to slam the door shut behind me. I headed to my bathroom, which was connected to my bedroom. I started brushing my teeth as fast as I could, then began brushing my messy hair. I put it up in a high ponytail after it was brushed and went to grab some clothes from my closet. I got out a woman's small sized blue and purple pinstripe suit, because for one I was a hardcore Doctor Who fan and two I was still the same size I had been when I was eighteen. A strong metabolism ran thick in my bloodline.

I applied the little bit of makeup I put on every morning after dashing my face with warm water. I was never a fan of makeup but as a professor, my job being with almost the general public, I had to look professional. After I threw on my suit, bathrobe discarded in the washer, I put on my custom TARDIS Converse Chucks, a hundred and fifteen dollars off Etsy, a silk black tie, and my black leather jacket.

With all that done I grabbed my keys from my bedside table, my notebook, and my satchel from my desk. After double-checking I had everything, including all of my pop quizzes graded from the night before, I headed out, door locked behind me.

Even at work though, the name Sherlock was still glued into my brain.

**-X-**

Sketching and warm half-n-half milk was how I passed the time between classes. I had taken a college course over sketching back in Seattle. I wasn't a professional but I had sold a few commission works over Deviantart. I got better everyday I practiced and I had started sketching to relief the stress during my high school years. That was also when I took up guitar lessons with Allen too.

I found myself sketching long legs walking upside down in that M.C. Usher labyrinth from my dreams. It wasn't my best sketch but it was interesting, it kept me sane while another hundred _young adults_ piled into my classroom.

Today I was to discuss the connection between inspiration and words. I had a lengthy lecture planned that I had already gone over once this morning, I'd go over it again another three times before the afternoon would pass. I sighed into my graphite-coated hand. _'Oh well, my inspiration will have to wait.'_

**-X-**

"Professor Knight?"

I was trying to catch a cab, my day at the University done. I had had to cover for a fellow English Professor, so this day was longer then my average one, the sun setting behind the horizon as I came out. I was only a part time college professor actually, but when I needed the money I covered for others. Today was long and trying, so I was ready to go home, but before I could catch that cab a hand had grabbed my arm.

"Who's asking?" I narrowed my eyes at the tall muscular dark haired man, in one heck of a dashing suit might I add, that basically towered over me. I wasn't exactly short; an inch over the average height…_for an American, _but this man seemed like a giant. My PPD set in and ferociously growled. PPD stands for Paranoid Personality Disorder by the by. I just call it PPD… or sometimes its just D for _Disaster_.

"Please, I need you to get in the Sedan ma'am." With his other arm he motioned towards the black car that pulled up beside us.

So, here's what happens when you have PPD, or at least this is my personal version: _I don't know who this guy is. Obviously he's a murderer who's targeted me as his next victim._ As my panic sets in I completely ignore the Government Issue tiepin he's wearing and the secret service earpiece he's got on. _I don't know this car so it has to be full of people that want to kill me._ In the few seconds I take to think_, I freak!_ This always happens. As you can imagine it's very difficult for me to meet new people, and practically impossible for me to go out on a date, disaster and paranoia around every corner.

'_That's why last night with Sherlock was so different. I didn't actually mistrust him right off, which is just…. awesome!'_

My eyes are wide, I'm sweating, my heart rates picking up like a freight train, and I'm having a near full on panic attack. Even the thought of Sherlock isn't enough to distract me. Luckily, over the many years I've had this disorder, I've found clever ways to calm myself and try and muddle through the thickness that is my paranoia. I start singing _'Don't Stop Believing' _in my head very slowly. I take three deep breaths and calm myself.

When I look up I see the tall man looking down at me, face blank, yet eyes thinking. He's holding the earpiece to his ear and I can hear the high-pitched sound waves coming from its transmission, like white noise on a TV. Ever since my PPD kicked in when I was young I've picked up on things much quicker, noises and sights mainly, as it's like a cornered animal's instincts to survive going full throttle. Sometimes it's like an adrenaline rush, other times it's like ferocious protective anger, and every once in a while it escalates to panic attacks.

"I am to assure you no harm is to come to you, and that you will be back home in time for dinner ma'am." The tall man addressed me gingerly, his tone like that if he was talking to a skittish animal. I frowned; I hated being treated like a frightened kitten, but nodded.

I found myself suddenly in a posh Sedan, leather seats and all, before I started panicking again. But before I could even get to the sweaty palm stage a beautiful calming hand landed on my shoulder.

"No need to worry." A soothing and harmonic voice floated into my ears. I turned my head to see a woman a little older then me sitting there, one hand on a Blackberry cell, and the other on my shoulder. Her hair was long and dark, her eyes lighted up by the phone.

I caught myself licking my lips and bite my tongue. Oh, _FYI_, not completely straight, my sexuality is slightly curved. But at least she's distracting me from going crazy. During the car ride, every single time I began to feel anxious she'd grip my shoulder. I'd asked her to explain what was going on but all she said was that I'd know when we got there. But where was there exactly?

It wasn't too long of a ride, and when we got there Anthea, _totally not her real name_, things just keep getting shiftier and shiftier today, lead me into an abandon parking garage. At least, that's what it looked like to me. She led me to a chair, asked me to sit, and then left.

"_O-kay,_ well, this is weird."

"I think it would be strange if you found it normal."

My thumbs stopped twiddling and I careened in my seat to see a familiar looking, and sounding, man walking towards me. "Ah! Mister Suspicious! Come to kill me like a Bond villain?" I realized instantly that this was the man I'd seen coming in and out of Sherlock's flat. The one Sherlock yelled at, not the DI. Realizing this I felt like being sarcastic, trying to hide how utterly terrified and protective I felt.

Mister Suspicious brought up a brow, looking surprised, but his eyes told me he wasn't, not really. "I am sorry for having to bring you here, it must be hard for you, having Paranoid Personality Disorder to continue to function in ordinary society. Let alone be taken from the street by a man you don't know. You must be… _worried_." He preened, acting like a peacock with too many feathers. He was looking down his nose at me, all of his words coming out slightly cynical, far from sympathetic.

"Okay," I held up my arms and started shaking my head. "Whoa, whoa, whoa! For one, whether or not I can function is none of your damn business. Two; you're not sorry so don't pretend to be! I've had just about enough pity in my life, thank you! And three, I already know you're Sherlock's brother, so please, get on with it. I've got dinner to get home to." I addressed him with absolute anger, so what if he was right; I knew how to cover up my paranoia and fear with anger and sarcasm very well. I've had thirteen years of practice!

"I did not mean to seem condescending Miss Knight, I-"

"It's Professor Knight! I didn't go through four years of hard work at SU just to be called Miss by posh _'gits _like you, Mister Holmes!" I couldn't help the outburst; he knew my professional title, yet he had to belittle me by calling me Miss. It was just another way to make me feel smaller. I really had worked severely hard to earn that title, and it was my pet peeve when students would call me Miss instead of Professor.

The older Holmes eyeballed me, analyzing my expression. He sighed and relented. "Very well, Professor Knight. As I was explaining, I do not mean to seem condescending-"

"Bull shit." I muttered, not meaning to say it out loud, but apparently my brain to mouth filter wasn't working today. Hey, it was either **A-** be really _really_ paranoid and scared or **B-** be really _really_ furious and angry about everything. That's why I had so many hobbies, to help channel my anger into recreational uses. At least that's what Paul says.

"I beg your pardon Professor?" Mister Suspicious' tone was dark, edged, like a knife hidden under black silk. This was how you could tell the difference between a defenseless man who speaks hard words and a hard man who speaks softly with great power. Sherlock's older brother, under that soft dapper suit, was a very hard man, the type of man whom only need speak a word to kill you.

'_Fury or panic?'_ I narrowed my eyes at him, the yellow of fear mixing with the red of fury, making a very confused and erratic orange emotion. "You're trying to tell me that you don't mean to be condescending while standing there looking down your nose at me? It may be because I'm not as smart as you or maybe it's 'cause I'm not as wealthy or _hell_ maybe it's 'cause I'm American! Whatever reason, Mister Holmes, I'd appreciate it if you didn't lie so blatantly to my face." I was blunt, big deal, social norms had always been way too taxing to me, not to mention utterly idiotic.

The older Holmes didn't seem too taken back by this, far from it, he seemed to appreciate the understanding that now he didn't have to be nice. Damn protocol, who cares, he thinks I'm an idiot, it's plain as day on his face, why hide it. And since he knows I know then that means he knows he doesn't have to _try_.

"Well," Mister Suspicious pretends to dust off his suit, his facial expression falling into a more natural setting for him. "To business then."

"About time." I muttered under my breath, crossing my legs as I sat back in the uncomfortable fold out chair.

Older Holmes spins his umbrella before pointing it threateningly at me. I glowered back at him. "You have some interest in my brother, yes?"

"Maybe, doesn't make it any concern of yours." I argued, folding my arms as the tip of my Converses tapped the ground.

"On the contrary, it is very much of my concern." The tip of the umbrella touched the ground again, and a hand went into the pocket of the fine grey dress trousers Older Holmes was wearing. The hand pulled out a solid gold pocket watch and tsked. "My brother _will_ find out about your…. _disorder_ Professor. When he does, the moment he is bored, he will try and _fix_ you." He closes the watch and places it gently back in his pocket. "And you will let him." His tone is serious, razor sharp; the words are an order, absolute in their intensity.

A growl rumbles in my chest, my hands fist, and I stand to my feet, form trembling with rage, chair falling back as I stood. "Who the hell are you to tell me what to do?" I yell, glaring the man down with fuming blue-green eyes. I'd had enough of people trying to fix me! I wasn't about to be pushed into allowing it!

"I am Mycroft Holmes, and I maintain a minor position in the British Government."

**-X-**

Back at Montague Street, flat 11, I found myself slowly sliding down my door, all five locks securely tightened. My satchel by my side, hands deep in my leather jacket pockets. I took several shaky breaths, but my flare up was still going strong, I needed to talk to someone, I needed to calm down some how.

'_Just a small town girl, living in a lonely world.'_ I sang slowly in my head, then, gently, while on wobbly legs, I got up and headed toward my speakers. '_The smell of wine and cheap perfume.'_ I kept singing as I plugged in my ipod to the speakers on my desk. I pressed play and the sound of Journey began to echo through out my flat.

"Working hard to get my fill, everybody wants a thrill!"

'_Some are born to sing the blues.'_ I kept singing in my head while the speakers played out the song. _'Hiding somewhere in the night!' _I could hear a familiar deep, smooth, baritone voice in the back of my head, singing along with me. _'Don't stop believing, hold on to that feeling.' _

Once the song was over I felt calm settle over me. I took one last deep breath and turned off my speakers. With my mind peaceful again, and my body steady, I went to my bedroom to set down my satchel and change. I took a quick shower and put on my TARDIS pajamas. With that done I put some soup in the microwave and made some hot chocolate. When my hot chocolate was finished I popped in a Doctor Who season three DVD.

'_Nothing better to calm the nerves then the sound of the TARDIS.'_

Before I could really settle in with my DVD and soup there was a knock at the door. I tensed, body going rigged, and I could only hope to God it wasn't Sherlock. If his brother was right then Sherlock was basically going to become another Paul for me, and I had my hands full with just the one.

"Kyle! Sweetie! Are you home?" Following the urgent knocks, a thickly accented Indian voice swept into the flat from the door.

I sighed, it was just Anya, coming to check up on me no doubt. Anya annually does this, she found out about my PPD thanks to the slip of the tongue one day when Paul was calling me. I don't really think she knows what it is, but she checks up on me like my own little nurse nonetheless. To tell the truth I think it's her excuse to flirt with me. I over heard her talking with Emily once, saying she thought American girls were exciting.

It's not that Anya isn't pretty, she is, slim figure, nice dark hair, good face. I'm just not interested. I just don't trust her. _'Story of my life.' _One of the curses of PPD was that you never trusted anyone and that you never entertained romantic thoughts, not really. So, as I said before, my love life was nonexistent. Not that I didn't look, but it was all a _look-but-don't-touch-she-might-kill-you_ type of thing.

I walked over to the door, reluctantly, and undid the five locks, just leaving the chain there. I opened my front door up enough to where she could see me, a big smile on her face, and a twinkle in her amber eyes. _'Oh boy.'_

"Oh! You are home!" Surprise in her voice. "I thought you might have a night class today." She knows I don't teach night classes, she just says that because it's something to say. Anya's too kind, raised strictly by her mother after her father over dosed. Momma-Anya giving a bit too much love to her daughter after the thought of losing her as well over came her. Meaning Anya's a bit too gullible and a bit too sweet.

How do I know this? Because I was compelled to look her up and know everything about her one day when she invited herself over for lunch. For all I knew she could have been a serial killer. But the information proved she wasn't bright enough for that, too much like a doormat.

"I heard you were talking to Mister Holmes yesterday." I tensed. "I was just wondering if he said anything…. _rude_ to you." She was fishing for a reason to get Sherlock evicted. Of course she was, Sherlock hated Anya the most, obviously because of her predictable doormat nature. But it was vice versa; Anya hated him just as much, if not more, _for some reason_.

"No," I shook my head and answered honestly_. 'At least Sherlock hadn't, Mycroft on the other hand…_' "He was _reasonable_." _'Especially since I fell asleep on his couch.' _Anya only mumbled something off hand in response before nodding.

"Well, alright." She relented with a smile. "If you need anything though just let me know." She said sweetly before saying goodbye. After that Anya made a hasty retreat, probably worried about her cat Sophie.

With her gone I locked the door back up and headed into the living room. There I took my soup, hot chocolate, and Doctor Who episodes and spent a long Thursday night in.

**-X-**

It was two days later, following two silent nights, and on a warm Saturday afternoon when I next saw Sherlock Holmes again. Incidentally I have Saturdays off, and they were my grocery shopping days. So I was out and about, catching a cab to the shop I frequent on Maple Street, when my cellphone rings.

I tense before reaching into my pocket; 'Losing It' by Rush was playing as my ringtone, meaning it could only be one person calling me. I sigh heavily and reluctantly put the phone to my ear, answering it.

"Hello Paul." I greet dully, voice plaintive and bored.

"_We haven't spoken in a month Kyle."_ A thick Chicagoan accent counters me immediately. Paul's baritone is low, making you think he was a big man when really he wasn't, but at times, when on long tangents, his voice can become deep and soothing. Sometimes I think that's the only reason he can pull off being a psychiatrist.

"Really? Been that long? I must be getting better at evading you." The cab pulls over at the shop on Maple Street. I hand the cabbie his payment and get out, the taxi driving away quickly after.

"_You know our deal Kyle."_ I clench my teeth together and I can hear Paul take a deep breath on the other side. _"You call me once every week and you don't get your green card revoked." _It's a threat; Paul is threatening me so that I'll talk to him. He knows the only thing I fear more than myself is the idea of being dragged back home.

"Is my mother still paying you to…. _diagnose_ me Paul?" The words come out a hiss, nothing pissing me off more than the thought of my own mother. There are so many reasons why, but none in which I am willing to mention.

"_Yes, but-"_

"Then go screw yourself!" I shouted into the phone as loud as decently possible, hoping to blow his eardrums out. I ended the call abruptly, but not unexpectedly, and put the cellphone back in my pocket before heading into the shop.

Paul thinks he can take away my green card using documents suggesting I might be dangerous. But Lionel, my publisher, one of the only people I can count as a friend, and the most stubborn man I've ever met, would never let that happen. Lionel's been helping me to keep my mother and my brother off my back for years. Me coming to London was actually his idea, and as long as I reported every threat from Paul back to Lionel _I'd be fine._

**-X-**

I wasn't worried; I swear I wasn't! Now if only my shaking hands believed me!

In the end the only thing I got from the shop was milk, soup, and some type of microwavable meat. '_Oh how I miss pizza!'_ You could totally tell from my selection that I was single.

I needed time to think though, time away from my flat and time away from work. So walking home instead of taking a cab would give me the time I needed, or so I thought.

I round a corner, bag in hand, and practically walk smack dab into a tall, dark haired, man. Familiar dark curls of hair at the back of his neck rub against my eyelashes as I step back and he whips around. His sinister expression of interest greets me and I find myself begging to be anyway else.

"Ah!" Sherlock expresses his acceptance of my sudden appearance by grabbing my wrist and pulling me forward. From the quick flash of yellow run-off tape I see I can tell I had just been hauled right into a crime scene. "Professor! How unexpected. Shopping?" Sherlock speaks quickly, almost gibberish spilling out of his mouth.

I grind my heels into the concrete, trying to stop and get Sherlock off of me, but it's almost like he doesn't even notice. After another minute I sigh and give in, walking beside him instead of being dragged.

"Yes, I was just heading home-"

"Nonsense! You are a fan of murder mysteries are you not?" Policemen are staring at Sherlock and me when I look up. I blink at the insane seeming consulting detective, wondering how he could have possibly figured out my favor in books. Did he break into my flat while I was gone? And how could Sherlock stand being leered at by so many cops? I was squirming in my skin under such scrutiny.

"Yes, matter of fact that's the genre I write but-"

"Excellent! I could use another pair of eyes for this case." Sherlock then pulls me into what seems like a lavish two-story house. I walk beside him but he still doesn't let go of my arm. Before I know it we're in some guy's basement, the strong smell of death wafting into my nose. "If you don't mind."

'_Oh, like I have a choice.'_ I groan and release a deep sigh. _'What a day this has turned out to be.'_

"Sherlock who the bloody hell is this? What have I said about bringing pedestrians onto a crime scene!" A deep and authoritative voice exclaims from the other side of the dark basement room. I look up from what appears to be a massive amount of blood in splatters, _'don't throw up-don't throw up-don't throw up',_ to see DI Lestrade. He walks forward, careful to avoid the blood, as he scowls right at Sherlock.

"She is hardly a pedestrian Lestrade! She's a Professor!" Sherlock whiningly argues, sounding like a five year old kid that would do anything to get what he wants. Something tells me that this will not be the last I hear of _that_ tone.

"A Professor?" Lestrade finally manages to get over to us without getting his boots all bloody. When he does he looks down at me, being as he was about an inch or so taller then me, and puts out his hand. "DI Lestrade." He doesn't sound upset with me, but he does have something of an interested spark in his eyes.

I take one nervously placed mini step back, PPD personal space issues flaring up, and I do it as stealthy as possible. Then I carefully go to shake his hand. "Professor Knight." I introduce myself with an elegant fake smile, years of practice in the making. I can only hope Lestrade didn't notice my weariness at his closeness, but I'm almost certain Sherlock did, as the hairs on the back of my neck are standing on end because of the intensity of his stare.

"Professor of what _exactly_?" Lestrade gently lets go of my hand and puts his own back in his jacket pocket.

Before I can reply, all too happy to get kicked out of the crime scene, the answer is produced for me. "A Professor of Criminal Justice of course! Can't even keep her away from the murder and the mystery!" Sherlock happily chimed, lies falling off his tongue far too easily.

I turn to lethally glare at the man standing next to me_. 'If he gets me arrested I'm killing him! Damn his politically invested bastard of a brother, I'm killing him!'_ But when my eyes land on Sherlock's largely amused grin I feel my anger deflate. I literally feel like a needle poked balloon, all the hot air whooshing out of me all at once._ 'Damn, he's got a disarming smile.'_ I shake my head and sigh heavily.

"Right then, come on, body's in here." Lestrade shrugs and motions us to follow. Behind Lestrade I'm careful to avoid the blood, it was a very good thing I wasn't wearing my TARDIS Converses today, but I still didn't want to get blood on my regular shoes. Even Sherlock was trying to avoid obscuring it, most likely so he could analyze the pattern later.

Lestrade leads us into another part of the rather large basement. This part has shelves and shelves of wine and old books in it. In the middle of the room though the body of an over weight, middle aged, old man lies dead on the floor. Blood is splattered everywhere in here too and the smell is intense.

"Major Thomas Sholto, fifty-three years old, retired army vet. An old friend of his came 'round and found him like this, a Mary Morstan. They served in the same regiment together." Lestrade began ticking off key details about the man as Sherlock put on a pair of plastic gloves. "Two sons; Thaddeus and his twin brother Bartholomew. The two live up in Upper Norwood, living off their da's riches." The DI sounded almost as if he was reading the information out of a file. "No prints, no sign of forced entry, can't even get a face on the CCTV."

Sherlock snapped the plastic on then threw a pair at me. I glared at him but all he did was raise a brow. I sighed and put the gloves on anyway. Sherlock Holmes was going to put me into an even earlier grave then PPD would, I was sure of it.

"So? Any ideas who might have killed 'em?" I asked, turning to the DI, my arms crossed as I watched Sherlock analyze the area out of the corner of my eye.

Lestrade shrugged. "No idea, didn't have enemies, 's a nice old bloke. I remember when I was a kid, him giving out candy to the tots for Christmas." He says, his eyes distant as he stares at the cold dead body in front of us, gaze locked on the sight.

I hum under my breath in thought. _'So, no enemies, that we know of… Maybe we should case the place for threatening letters or legal disagreements?'_ I was thinking, but not like Agatha, not this time, more along the lines of Larsson. _'The cops probably have that covered though.'_ I closed my eyes and furrowed my brow, hands deep in my pockets.

**-**_Kur-thunk_**-**

"Sherlock!"

I open my eyes when I hear Lestrade yell, and then I nearly throw up. The noise had been from Sherlock rolling over the body. If it sounded heavy it's because it was, I could only wonder how someone as scrawny as Sherlock had managed to flip the man. It's put Lestrade in a tizzy, but through his actions Sherlock has discovered a very important clue.

The reason I feel like I'm about to throw up? Because Major Sholto's skull is bloody, caved in, and scattered into bits and pieces. No, wait, let me correct that statement; Major Sholto's skull has been _hammered_ in. His cranium was probably destroyed by what might have been a head-sized sledgehammer. That would explain what is up with all this blood everywhere.

"So, violent crime, not hate crime, I'm guessing." I mumbled under my breath, hoping neither Sherlock nor Lestrade had heard me. If anything I'd like to be invisible right now, anywhere but here, my milk curdling in my bag by the entrance where I'd left it.

"Professor!" '_Is Sherlock ever going to use my freaking name?' _"Over here!" The tall gangly man motioned for me to come to his side. I paled instantly. I had no desire to go any closer to that mutilated corpse.

But what choice did I have?

Gingerly, avoiding blood and a DI, I walked over to Sherlock's side. I groaned when the smell hit me.

"What do you see?" The Consulting Detective asked sincerely. I felt a little over whelmed, Sherlock asking me for my opinion? I knew I was going to embarrass myself but _whatever_.

"Rigor mortis." I kneeled down and gently took an arm into my gloved hands. The muscles were stiff, hard to move. "Extremely pale skin, probably…_no-_ evidently caused by extreme loss of blood." I looked around, splatters caused by hammer breaking skin on the body. It was like dropping a large amount of water into a pool, the water hitting each other then coming back up, but with the blood it was at an angle. "He was lying here when the last strike was made, the skull finally caving in fully. The initial blow was probably made upstairs, knocking the body to fall down said stairs and into the basement. The second strike was made at the bottom of those stairs, then the body was dragged to here." I pointed out each piece of evidence that lead me to this theory as I spoke. The blood lines along the room, splatters on the shelves, and the bits of blood I could see littering the stairs.

I didn't look up at Sherlock for confirmation; I just kept looking at the body, analyzing it thoroughly. Something about this, something was _so_ familiar about all of this: The body, the blood, the wound, _everything_! I felt some serious deja-vu going on inside my head! I just kept staring, the sick feeling gone, now replaced by some brain deep confusion. I had seen all of this before, I was sure of it, _but where?_

"Professor?" I vaguely heard DI Lestrade from my right, my concentration else where, and I looked up. The DI had a concerned expression on his face, I can only imagine me having a haunted one on mine.

"Hmm?" I hummed and brushed myself off as I stood. "Sorry, what?"

"You," DI Lestrade motioned his hand to his head. "Spaced out a little there, alright mate?" He asked, stepping around the body to come to my side. He must think I was freaking out about the dead body. Well, he was a few minutes late for that.

"Yeah." I nodded, rubbing my nose with my sleeve. I looked around then, the room decidedly absent of annoying consulting detective. "Sherlock?" I looked back to the DI and he just shook his head.

"Outside, _maybe_." Lestrade replied with a shrug and a sympathetic look in his eyes.

I rolled mine and headed outside, leaving the DI behind without an explanation. Before completely leaving I grabbed my bag and looked inside. The milk and soup were _kind of_ still okay, but the meat was thawed and pink looking. I sighed again, for the umpteenth time today, and just started walking back towards Montague Street.

But for the second time that day black curls stopped me. He practically blind-sided me, coming out of nowhere to gently grab my arm and tug me down the street. I nearly had a heart attack.

"We need to question this; _Mary Morstan_. Find out what exactly she knows about the Major's murder." He says quickly, leading me down another corner heading towards Euston Road. I gape at the man, tearing my arm from his grip.

He whips around when I do, his gaze questioning, I just glare. "_'We?'_" I repeat.

"Yes, two or more people within one grouping: _'we'_. Do keep up!" He scolded, scowling at me as he went to grab my arm again. I stepped back out of his reach and there was that look; the five year old who wasn't getting what he wanted look.

I grinded my teeth as I stood back, trying not to get angry, but failing miserably_. 'So this was what Mycroft was talking about.'_

"_My brother will find out about your…. disorder Professor. When he does, the moment he is bored, he will try and fix you."_

I shook my head frantically_. 'No more Pauls! NO!'_ I looked back at Sherlock and saw that look, the I'm-analyzing-you-like-an-experiment look. I couldn't take it, I just couldn't!

"Don't! Don't you dare!" I stomped back up to him and grabbed a hand full of warm Irish wool. "I've had enough of people trying to fix me!" I pulled and Sherlock was forced to lean closer, otherwise his expensive coat would get rumpled. "You can't fix me, I'M NOT BROKEN!" I can't help yelling, my anger was just too strong. I was shaking I was so angry. The look Sherlock wears is surprised, but not upset, an air of _'it doesn't matter, this isn't over'_ coming off of him.

I growl deep in the back of my throat before shoving Sherlock back evasively. Before he can argue or say anything at all I run back the opposite direction. As quickly as possible I catch a cab back home. When I get back to flat 11, I throw my things away and pick up my guitar from the stand. I thought my playing would screech but instead it sounded so sad.

**-X-**

Two days later I find myself trudging back up to my flat, _exhausted_. Two days of silence, two days of horrible night terrors that I couldn't remember when I woke up, two days of being dead tired. I felt sick to the bone nearly.

I felt so bad I was almost considering asking Sherlock to play for me so maybe I could sleep without having night terrors. _Almost_. I didn't feel _that_ bad, not yet though.

I sigh heavily as I unlocked my flat's door. Sherlock probably wasn't even in right now, most likely out questioning Thaddeus and Bartholomew up at Upper Norwood. Not that I was interested, or curious, not at all. His cases were none of my business.

I closed my door behind me and tightened the five locks back. When inside I put my satchel in my office chair beside my desk and headed straight for the kitchen. I fixed myself a drink, a glass of grape juice, and went into my living room to check my recordings on the TV. I carefully sat my cup on the coffee table, the room dark, as I leaned over to turn on the lamp beside the couch. When I could see again I turned back to my glass to get a sip, but before I could I saw something out of the corner of my eye.

"Hello Kyle."

I screamed.

**-X-**

**Author's Notes: **_It's not as long as most of my chapters but next chapter will be longer, I'm sure._

FYI- _For all of my readers to know this is based loosely off of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's "The Sign of Four" with some changes. Look up the summary for it some time; see how many dots you can connect._

_Another thing, look up PPD and you'll find that panic attacks are not usually apart of this disorder, but I know someone, 'a friend', who has this disorder and, in really extreme situations, will have panic attacks. I thought being abducted by Mycroft might be pretty extreme to her._

_I also have Google maps up right now, and even though Sherlock lives on Montague Street, in London Montague Street is where London University is, and there are no Creative English classes at London University, so lets just stretch our imagination shall we? _

_And flat 12? Benedict Cumberbatch as the 12__th__ Doctor? I wish._

_Most, if this is liked well enough, of Sherlock and Kyle's cases will be based off of early Sherlock Holmes books. And is anybody seeing familiar characteristics between Kyle and John? You should, I'm writing it like that on purposes. You'll see why._

_So? Who was that in Kyle's apartment? Well you review? Is this loved? Find out next time on CDW!_

**R&R PLEASE!**


	3. The Sign of Two: Part 2

_Beta-ed by FoxMewBrittany_

"_**The Cases and Deductions of Writings"**_

**12MontagueStreet Chronicles**

**Chapter 2:** _'The Sign of Two' -_Part 2-

_I did not just scream like a little girl!_ "Damn it Allen!" _I swear I didn't!_ I fumbled about, trying to take deep even breaths, but all I wanted was a gun. Back in my apartment in Seattle I had a gun handy; a Kahr CW9 pistol. But it's impossible to carry a gun over the pond, now isn't it?

"It's good to see you as well Kyle." Allen's smooth baritone voice rumbled deep in his chest, the same smile that won over politicians and wanton women alike, on his face. Lets just say, I spent nineteen years of my life with this man, that smile didn't really work on me, never really has.

"Well it's not good to see you!" I got up and stormed over to the door as swiftly as possible, my pulse still flying from the fear in my veins. I quickly undid the locks and opened the door wide. "Now get out of my flat!" I demanded, growling, as my eyes locked onto my brother's.

Allen Knight, four years my senior, and my mother's only child. His dark brown hair was combed down, a smart suit on his back, a long black jacket hiding his arms and hands. He stood two inches taller then me, handsome and brilliant, an American Ambassador. When I was young he played the role of the protective older brother, problem was he didn't know where to draw the line. There is a difference between being protective and being possessive.

"Kyle," A cane appears from his long dark sleeves and into his leather-clad hands. He twirls it and continues to grin at me. "That's no way to treat a guest." He argues, his voice like warm silk. "I came all the way here from the embassy just to see you." Suddenly, his voice darkens, turning into smoke instead of silk. He inches towards me, and with each step his gaunt takes him, is the one step I take further back.

"I'm warning you Allen! I can call the Yard! I know the DI personally!" I threaten, my voice trembling, fear cold in my blood, my brother like ice. I was scared of him, _hell,_ he scares me more then any thug with a gun ever could. He was a demon in human skin.

He wasn't always like this though. It was just one day, out of the blue, instead of my brother reminding me of sunflowers and nightingales he reminded me of smoke and demons. I don't know what happened, it just did.

My brother sighed that weary sigh that would remind one of a tired tyrant, right before he chops off your head. "You really are scared aren't you? PPD not any better now that you're so far away from mother and I?" He tsked, clicking his tongue as he sneered down at me in aggravation. "Not an instant cure then? What a shame. Seems Lionel has no idea what he's doing. Not a surprise really." His eyes were dark and his drawl was thick, like sludge.

"You leave Lionel out of this!" I hissed, still so far away, the urge to run so strong. That was the first thing I had done when I had the chance; I ran, ran away to Seattle and never looked back. But why were my nightmares coming back to haunt me now of all times?

Allen grinned like a murderous cat. "No need to worry. I'm not here to make trouble Kyle, just came by to see you." He shrugged and his eyes roamed my flat, his gaze so displeased.

"By breaking into my flat and giving me a heart attack? GET OUT ALLEN! FUCK YOU AND GET OUT!" I yelled at the top of my lungs, my desperately clung to composure crumbling under my brother's presence.

He snarls deep in his throat, swinging his cane over his shoulder as he walks up to the door, and unfortunately closer to me. I try and stay as far away from him as physically possible. But I end up being backed into the wall.

Before I can move away Allen is inches closer. I thought he was going to stab me, hit me with his cane. I squeezed my eyes closed and waited for the blow. Instead the last thing I feel before Allen's shadow crosses my threshold is a kiss to my cheek and his hand in my pocket.

"_Mi manchi sorella."_ Allen whispers in my ear, his breath cold but his tone warm.

I freeze and stay completely still until I hear Allen get into the lift at the end of the hall. With my heart frozen and Allen gone I close my door and tighten my locks extra taut. When my door is closed I slide down it and reach into my pocket. Inside my leather jacket pocket is a picture. My gaze touches the surface of it and _I break_.

Tears fall down my cheeks and I slide my knees up to my chest. My body racks with sobs as I rock gently back and forth. This is what Allen does to me, seeing his face, hearing his voice. It breaks me to pieces. _He breaks me to pieces_.

The picture Allen had slid into my pocket, the one in my hand, it was of a summer fifteen years ago, when Allen still smelled of grass and Dad's left out Old Spice. That summer when we started taking up guitar lessons; Allen had his first lesson with Mister Armonia and the day after that I begged to learn guitar along with him.

Mister Armonia was a sweet little man from Italy that moved in beside us shortly after my thirteenth birthday. After he began teaching guitar to both Allen and me he basically became our replacement father. Whenever Mother would have male _company_ over we'd sneak off to Mister Armonia's and bake things or he'd teach us all about his home country.

Those were the days before my mother completely disowned me, only a few years after father walked out on us. Those were the days when the world was Allen's and mine. Those were our days, before PPD, before things changed.

After several long moments of sobbing, when my veins started to heat up again, I crumpled the picture into my pocket and stood. I was _SO_ tired, and now I knew I was going to be sick. Luckily I had tomorrow off. I stood, headed to the bathroom to shower, and went straight to bed.

That night the night terrors were even worse.

**-X-**

The next day I stayed in, afraid to even leave my flat that Allen might show up again. I stayed on the couch, sipping at a random assortment of hot drinks and eating a random assortment of hot soups. I felt horrible; almost as horrible as the day I first met Paul. I needed sleep, _desperately_.

I knew only one way to help me sleep, and I was refusing to take it. But when I looked back at my coffee table that morning, and I saw the picture my brother had left behind, my resolve broke.

I sighed and put my mug down, robe securely on; I headed next door, to flat 12. God but I was desperate. This was my last chance to get some sleep, hopefully soothed into the darkness by a very talented violinist.

From my threshold I stared at his flat._ 'Time to be brave.' _I took a deep breath and walked over, knocking on his door.

"Goooo aaaway!"

'_What the hell?'_ I tilted my head and glared at flat 12's door, Sherlock's door. He sounded, dare I say it, high as a kite. _'Oh no, no, no, no!'_ I shook my head and put my hand on the knob. It twisted under the pressure and the door opened. Another first for me, breaking and entering… without having to use a lock pick.

I raced in and saw…. Yeah, that's what I thought. "You dumbass! What the hell are you doing?" This man, this great genius detective, was injecting himself with cocaine from the stuff on his coffee table.

"Taking benzoylmethylecgonine, a seven percent solution. What does it look like?" His gaze was lopsided from where he… staggered to sit on the couch. But even high as a freaking kite he still had that _'you're stupid and I'm a genius' _look on his face.

"Like you're injecting crack as if you're a damn junkie!" I exclaimed, running up to Sherlock like it was a race against time. "Give me that!" I ripped the syringe he was using to inject himself with from his hands. Then, before he even had time to protest against me taking said syringe, I blew the rest of the coca off the coffee table.

"What!" Sherlock looks at the coffee table, devastated. "You!" He then stood to his full height, not a sway in his step, as he towered over me, furious.

"It's not fair to the world for you to waste your brain Sherlock Holmes! And I'm not going to let you!" I poked him in his blue silk robed chest, just for added effect.

And the only retort he can think to utter is: "I'm not broken." It's whispered furiously, all the wraith of the world in those words.

I feel myself suck in a deep breath, a gasp. Then I clench my teeth and see, really see, what I was just doing. Taking away his coca is like him trying to fix my PPD. But…but that wasn't fair! I wasn't a unique genius who saved lives! It's different!

'_Yet, it really isn't.'_

Suddenly my shoulders slump, muscles going lax. I feel like giving up, I was just too tired to continue to fight against the world. I looked up into those gorgeous aqua green eyes and relented. I know Sherlock saw this, for his anger softened.

"You want to fix me? Fine." He nodded, and continued to listen. He knew there was a '_but'_ coming on. "But you gotta stop this," I motioned to the coffee table and to the white stained beige carpet. "It's not a fair trade, you're way more important then my PPD, but if that's what you want…." I don't go on; just let the statement hang there in the air like an anvil.

"Yes."

"You gotta quit cold turkey though."

"What?"

I smirked at the gaping disbelief on the consulting detectives' face. I was really going to do this; I was really going to let Sherlock Holmes try and _fix_ me.

"All or nothing smart guy." I put the cards down on the table and wait for him to make a move. He looks at me, as if sizing me up, thinking whether it's worth it or not. Reluctantly the detective nods. I smile and put my hand out.

He looks at the hand and raises a brow. Realization hits him quickly and he scowls darkly. "No."

"Yes. Where is it Sherlock?"

"None of your concern."

"Deal or no deal, your move."

Sherlock, pouting, flops onto his couch like a dolphin, wrapping himself up in his robe. "No!" He replies vehemently.

I roll my eyes and start looking. He can hear me, I know he can, but he doesn't move. I look everywhere, under the sofa, the bed, his sock drawer, even in his kitchen cabinets, which are decidedly empty. _'So he starves himself too? Yep, early grave for me thanks.' _But when I finally make it back to the living room the first thing my eyes land on is; _Hamlet the skull_. "Ah!" I exclaim and pluck the skull from it's resting place. Inside his cranium is a huge zip lock bag of coca.

I blink once and Sherlock tackles me to the ground, trying to get his drugs back. I'm not surprised; I wasn't exactly ready for that though. One advantage I have over Sherlock though is weight. He feels like a twig, slithering around like a snake on my chest.

"Idiot! You don't eat enough to keep me pinned!" I push Sherlock off of me and run to the bathroom. Before Sherlock can tackle me again I throw the bag in the toilet and flush it.

"No!"

"Yes! All or nothing." Sherlock just stares despairingly down at the toilet. "Now I'm all yours." I grin, breathing deeply after the quick adrenaline rush.

Sherlock glares up at me, rethinking his evaluation of the situation. He growls deep in his throat and just glares, moments later he gives up, plunking himself right back down onto the couch. He looks just like a sulking little kid when he does that. "Sholto case files are on the table!" He calls, apparently wanting me to look them over.

So I do.

**-X-**

Major Thomas Sholto went into the military when he was twenty years old. He mainly worked behind a desk during his time in the army, but had been shipped off to India shortly before his return to London.

I flipped through the papers, sitting languidly at the kitchen table, reading about the case. I had all the information Sherlock had collected spread out along the tabletop. I've always been able to process data faster when it's all out there for me to see. The file didn't have anything to say about Sholto's time in India, which I found decidedly suspicious. It did say though that Sholto came back to England with a small fortune, which he then passed on to his two boys.

Mary Morstan was there with him when he went to India, she, however, did not return with a small fortune like Sholto did. Something here wasn't adding up. Morstan said, during Sherlock's very erratic interview with her, that Sholto had actually asked her to come over the day before. During the call she received Sholto kept saying strange things that didn't make sense to her. One of those things was that he continued to repeat the phrase _poisonous thorn_.

I looked at the paper Sherlock had made notes on again. I practically glared at it, something ticking away in the back of my head as I saw those two conspicuous words. _Poisonous thorn?_ Was it a code or maybe a lead? Perhaps it was a clue to a possible murder weapon? But a hammer was used to kill Sholto, so why was he saying things about a poisonous thorn?

I put the notes back on top of the file they originated from and rubbed my temples. It was going to be a long day I was sure of it.

I sighed and picked up my mug of dreadful tasting coffee, it was really the only thing keeping me awake at this point, and sipped at it. Picking up another file I shoveled through it. This one had notes over Sholto's two sons. Neither of them had any criminal records, nothing but a bunch of parking tickets. They both worked at a law firm down town, near the South Banks. From what Sherlock had gathered they weren't the killers, they had good solid alibis for the night of the murder.

'_Maybe the killer was a thief? After Sholto's fortune?'_ I wondered; putting Sherlock's second page of notes down, I dragged the police report over through the pile of files. The report said nothing had been taken from the house, not a blasted thing! I gritted my teeth and scowled. _'There goes that theory!'_

"Sherlock! This is… OH! I hate this!" I shouted, banging my head against the table as I let the papers fall back to the top.

"Why?" Sherlock showed up behind my back and I jumped. I hadn't even heard him move from the couch. I turned to look up at him from where I was sitting and scowled.

"Because it's like a thousand piece puzzle! I got all the pieces but I can't even figure out which ones make the border of the damn picture! It's frustrating! I know it's here yet I can't see it! How have you not gone mad yet?" I explain throwing my arms around here and there in complaint and exasperation.

When I look back up at the consulting detective he's got this look, this _how-do-you-know-I-haven't-already-gone-mad-yet _look on his face. He was right; clearly he'd already lost his mind. But he also has another expression on, one I haven't seen before, a _now-you-understand_ expression. It was slightly refreshing.

"What do you make of it so far?" Sherlock asks as he goes to pick up a mug from the kitchen counter. I narrow my eyes at him. _'Why is he being so nice?' _I knew for a fact that Sherlock Holmes was a rude bugger. It's hard not to when you live right next to him. I wondered if this had something to do with him trying to _fix_ me.

I take a deep breath and collect a few papers from in front of me, looking through them quickly. "So," I start by holding up Miss Morstan's picture and file. "Last Friday night Mary gets a call from her old army friend Thomas, or Tommy as she refers to him as. Tommy asks her to come over the next day, muttering about a poisonous thorn. Mary agrees to come over, but the next day she finds her friend Tommy brutally murdered by a hammer not a thorn. Another point is Tommy's money he just happened to acquire while in India. Mary denies any knowledge to fowl play in his gaining of this money. Tommy's own sons don't even know how he got it, but are more then happy to lavish themselves in it. The killing couldn't have been a theft because-… _**Wait. A. Second.**_" I stop abruptly, an idea hitting me like a brick wall.

Sherlock watches intently as I begin raffling through endless stacks of paper again. "What if it _was_ a robbery?" I ask, thinking about the last Braun novel I had read, a book called; _Cat Who_. "What if we have a regular Arsene Lupin on our hands? Just one with a tinge of blood lust." I find the paper I'm looking for and wave it excitedly in Sherlock's face. "Police report says that nothing was taken! But what if something that wasn't filed was taken? Something hidden?" I put the paper back down and start putting the files back together. "We need to go check it out, see if there's any hidden compartments in that basement!" I state, adrenaline rushing through my veins as I felt like one of my favorite mystery book detectives.

Before I can even blink Sherlock has his coat on, ready to go. "Coming?" He quips with a sarcastic smile on his face.

I smile back and run across the hall to get dressed, as I was still in my robe. I put on a pair of sunglasses, my regular black and white shoes, a blue short-sleeved t-shirt, jeans, and my leather jacket. I don't even look at the picture on my coffee table, not once. By the time I'm done Sherlock is already out in the hall, waiting for me.

"You were just waiting 'till I came to the same conclusion as you, weren't 'ya?"

And Sherlock just grins as we walk to the lift.

**-X-**

Not a thing! Not a damn thing!

We nearly took that house apart looking for hidden compartments or mysterious things gone amiss. But just because we couldn't find anything doesn't mean my theory isn't possible, it could still be that the item taken wasn't on file. It was very possible that the murder was still mainly theft!

When we got there Sherlock tried getting the constable on guard at the crime scene to let us in. She distinctly refused. Sherlock even tried to get a hold of Lestrade, but the DI wasn't answering his phone.

"Charm her Sherlock." I insisted, motioning my hands for him to go over to talk to her. Yes, the constable was a she, a blonde haired she with sharp features and a nice slim waistline.

Sherlock's features turned pinched. He looked absolutely disgusted at the thought. So maybe he didn't swing that way? Not the point though. I just really wanted to get out of the rain.

"Why don't you do it?" He whined, folding his coat collar up to shield his cheekbones.

"Because she's straight." He looked at me sideways. So, Sherlock Holmes wasn't an expert at noticing sexual orientation. I sighed; I was about to give Sherlock _the birds and more the birds_ talk. "When she looked at you she licked her lips and her gaze traveled down. I'd say it's been four months since she's had sex, not the point though." I shook my head and tried to focus. "But when she looked at me she had this angry jealous look in her eyes." I had scowled at that.

"So?" Sherlock really wasn't getting what I was trying to say.

"So; you're good looking and when a good looking man pays a straight woman a compliment they can't help but giggle and let them do whatever they want." Okay, so I was stereotyping, it was a 70%-30% chance that I was right though.

"Really?" Sherlock brightened, almost as if he had just been given the answer to a very important question. He then flips his collar down and smiles like a fox. Sherlock basically struts back over to the constable and gives the theory a try. I can't hear what he says but whatever it was it makes the constable turn bright red and giggle.

Lets just say that we got in and that I had created a monster.

**-X-**

It was still pouring down rain when we got back, the clouds covering the sun making it almost midnight dark. I was chilled to the bone; sneezing, shaking, and so tired I collapsed on Sherlock's couch as soon as I walked in.

"I'm going to die." I grumble as my face is buried deep in a couch cushion.

"I highly doubt that." Sherlock intones, the voice of reason, as he hangs up his coat and goes to sit in his armchair.

I roll my eyes and roll over. "Well I feel like it." I mumble.

Then, suddenly, Sherlock begins to play. As usual I cannot name the melody but it sounds absolutely beautiful. It lulls me to sleep gently, like a mother would an infant. I don't know if Sherlock knows that's exactly what I needed or not, but something deep down tells me he did.

So for the first time in weeks I fall into a peaceful dreamless sleep.

**-X-**

Little did I know that falling asleep on Sherlock's couch would become a habit for nights we, I mean _he_, has cases. And I'll never admit it but I seem to get a better night's sleep on _his_ couch rather then in _my_ bed.

When I wake up in the morning Sherlock's nowhere to be seen. His living room almost feels lonely without him. So I yawn and I stretch, popping my shoulders, with no clicking of keys as ambience. I get up and I look down to see Irish wool covering me, and I smile. Sherlock may act like a cold hearted dick most of the time but when he wanted to be a he could be a…. little bit less of a cold hearted dick, _I guess_. I'm sure Hell would freeze over the day Sherlock Holmes was ever considered sweet.

I lie back for a bit, just absorbing the sunlight shining in from the window. I didn't really feel like waking up fully, my mind just hovering in-between fuzzy and on. I just wanted to lie there and feel rested; it'd been _so_ long since I had actually felt really well rested.

But when I realized I was still in my damp clothes from yesterday I sighed and got up. I stand on pinprick feeling legs and stumble, catching the coffee table before I fall. _'Crap.'_ I groan and straighten when I stand.

That's when I hear it though. _Snoring_. _Sherlock Holmes_ snoring, to be exact.

My eyebrows furrow and I look down the hall to see a door just past his kitchen. If his flat's rooms are organized the same as mine, which they should be, then the slightly ajar door past said kitchen will be his master bedroom.

I slink my way past the coffee table, under the arch, through the kitchen, and then peeked in through the cracked bedroom door. When I look inside I see Sherlock, half tossed half curled up, on his bed in his blue robe. His face is turned towards me, mouth agape, drool sliding down onto his pillow, as he snores. I smile and bite my lip to keep from laughing. The great and unfathomable Sherlock Holmes looked so much more like a child then he acted while asleep.

I drew in a quick breath and closed the door silently behind me. For a few moments I leaned against the door and just grinned. When it was bordering on ten minutes later I straightened back up and headed over to my own flat.

Back in flat 11 I showered, changed into one of my suits, and made enough breakfast for two. After I was done eating breakfast I took a plate over to flat 12 and left it on the table with a note underneath it:

_Dear Sherlock;_

_Don't get high, eat something, and try not to kill anyone._

_Sincerely, Kyle._

_P.S. Yes, that's my freaking name, try using it._

**-X-**

I didn't have any classes until noon that day, so I was able to relax a little before heading out and catching a cab to the University. Everything seemed so much more lax today, so much calmer. But what do they say about the eye of the storm? _Sigh_. My optimism is limited.

My students pile into the classroom as I put my sketchbook away. This was my third and last class of the day, today going by so much faster then usual. Everyone comes in and is seated calmly; I take a deep breath as I stretch to get up.

"Professor!"

Quickly, I shoot up, alarmed, and turn around as I stand to address the young teacher's aid that barges into my classroom. He looks out of breath, blonde hair ruffled, breathing deeply, as he walks over to my desk.

"Yes Adam?" I ask as I hold up a hand to quiet the whispering students to my right. They go silent and my full attention is set on Adam Young, the teacher's aid.

"There's a man…" He takes a deep breath. "Here to-"

Before poor Adam can finish his sentence a familiar Irish wool coated consulting detective bursts into my classroom behind him. He's beaming, having been given another lead no doubt, and rushes over to me.

"Ah! Kyle! Thought I might find you here." Sherlock begins, that look in his eye.

"Yeah, because I work here!" While I glare at him, I can feel the heavy gazes of every single one of my students in class on me. "I'm in the middle of class, Sherlock!"

"No matter." He waves off the disturbance as if it's nothing. "I was just speaking with Thaddeus Sholto, and I believe we have another lead to the case." He was practically giddy with excitement about the investigation.

"Another lead?" I question, ignoring reality for a second.

"Yes, Bartholomew Sholto was just killed earlier today! Seemingly poisoned by a thorn lodged in his skin!" I don't think I've ever seen anyone so happy about another person's death.

"Poisonous thorn?"

"Yes!"

I sigh and shake my head, then motioned towards all the full seats in my classroom. "It's going to have to wait. I. Am. In. The. Middle. Of. A. Class." I enunciate slowly, hoping it would sink into Sherlock's thick skull.

Sherlock looks around, his mop of raven colored hair bouncing. "Yes of course." He mumbles, leering at all of my students, probably dissecting their lives with his eyes alone as his gaze sweeps over them. And with that, he simply swaggers out of my classroom, acting as if nothing strange had just happened. I sigh, _again_.

"Who was that Professor?" Adam Young asks, his blue eyes blinking in astonishment and confusion.

"Just chaos in a nutshell Adam, _just_ _chaos in a nutshell_."

**-X-**

When I get back to my flat Sherlock is waiting for me in my living room. I would be upset with him breaking in but something had him pacing in a tizzy.

"Sherlock?"

He stops and looks up from his pacing; face blank of emotion. Quickly his expression morphs into a Cheshire cat grin.

"Do you have something nice to wear?"

_Sigh_. "Why are you asking me that when you've clearly already been through my closet?" Why wouldn't he have been? Apparently _nothing_ was off limits to him.

"It'll be on your bed." He replies, an amused fox like grin stretching along his face.

My brow rose. "What will?"

"We're attending a party at Pondicherry Lodge. A formal affair unfortunately." He answers vaguely.

I frown. "But that's all the way in Soho! And don't you mean we'll be sneaking in?"

"Precisely. Do be quick." And with those last words he was gone, I didn't even have time to argue.

I groan as I trudge into my bedroom, throwing my satchel onto my desk as I passed. On my bed, and I was going to _KILL_ Sherlock for this, was a red formal dressing gown. It was a Tadashi Shoji red Chiffon Pleated one-shoulder formal dress gown. It looked more expensive then the entire mortgage rate on my flat! I bulked at it, and hoped to God Sherlock hadn't stolen it.

I didn't want to wear a dress though! I hated dresses! I was strictly a two-piece suit girl!

An exhausted breath escapes my lips. Even if I didn't want to Sherlock would insist. _'That bastard.'_ I bellowed and relented, heading to take a shower and wash my hair.

It looked like tonight I was going to a posh party. _'Joys.'_

**-X-**

About an hour later my hair was set into curls, which naturally occurred when my hair was wet actually, and I was fixed up just like a damn showgirl. Not my brightest hour that was for sure.

The dress fit snuggly, like a glove, almost as if Sherlock knew exactly what size to get. Who was I kidding, obviously he did.

I didn't have any high heels to wear with the dress so instead I put my wallet, and something sharp I'd rather not mention, inside the black leather boots I was wearing.

When I was ready, and extremely reluctant, I headed over to flat 12 to regroup with Sherlock. The _unfathomable_ genius had actually left his front door cracked a bit! Then again what self-respecting thief would try and rob Sherlock Holmes? It'd be like robbing Scotland Yard while all the coppers were still there, in broad daylight, with no disguise! So, basically suicidal.

The first thing I see when I open the door fully is Sherlock's back. He clearly hears the door opening and turns to address me. He begins speaking about Bartholomew's body, which he went to inspect right after leaving the University. He'd actually had to go to Bart's morgue to do that, it being kind of ironic. He mentions the thorn and a note on the body. The note had said: _The Sign of Two_. Sherlock then says he has deduced who the murderer is and where the treasure is, just from inspecting one dead naked body. Well, he did interview Thaddeus again afterwards, which probably helped as well.

But let me admit that I miss a great deal of what Sherlock says after he turns around. My mouth kind of just drops, my bottom jaw hitting the floor, as I see my tall, dark, and mysterious neighbor dressed in a bloody tux! Obviously the tux wasn't literally bloody, and I'm apparently adopting British slang now, but he looked absolutely amazing! Every straight girl at this party was going to be all over him in seconds!

"Ready?"

My eyes widen and I startle. "Uh? Wha?"

Sherlock raises a brow. "Are you ready to leave Professor? Or are you too busy ogling me?" Sherlock says back sharply, wit like a razor, as he extends his arm for me to take.

"Oh! Really? We're gonna go there? Mister _I'm-Absolutely-Fabulous_." I snap back snarkily, taking his offered arm in mine anyway. "It's not as if I'm looking at a tall, dark haired, tux wearing man, right? Just an insane consulting detective." I flip my hair back and bat my eyelashes at him as we head toward the lift. He tilts his head in a confused look and I laugh. "Just kidding _amigo_."

He straightens himself as we get inside the lift. "For one I am not insane, I am a high functioning sociopath. Obviously. Two, _'amigo'_?" Sherlock asks while looking over at the mirror beside him and trying to fix his bowtie, _clearly bowties are cool_.

I roll my eyes and huff out a breath, my bangs weaving in and out on that breath. "'_Amigo'_ is Italian for friend." Sherlock glares, I shrug. "Okay, so you know Italian. So do I. Point is, I feel more comfortable saying amigo than friend." I can feel Sherlock's gaze shift suddenly from glare to intense stare in seconds of me saying that. "And FYI you're not a sociopath, I've met a real sociopath before, and trust me you're nothing like him." _'Let alone the fact you're clearly in love with your work.'_

**-X-**

Pondicherry Lodge is probably the most lavish place I've ever been in. Chandeliers, champagne, expensive rugs, art, tapestries, voluminous rooms, catering, and lets not forget the cookie cutter rich high society populate that were contained within.

There was even someone there to announce our entrance. Talk about old school rich folks.

"Arriving is Lord Mycroft Holmes and Professor Kyle Knight!"

When the names are announced, right by my ear by the way, _shesh_, I glared up at Sherlock. His arm was entangled in mine as we walked further inside the Lodge. Come to find out, as Sherlock had informed me on the way here, this was actually Thomas Sholto's funeral. _Blimey_. Point being though was we were here to basically crash the party and I had used my real name!

'_Damnit!'_

"Professor."

I heard Sherlock and I looked up at him, then, quickly, I turned to follow his steady gaze. He seemed to be very concentrated on Thaddeus Sholto, or at least he looked like the picture of Thaddeus that I had seen, who was really drinking in the free booze at the bar_. 'Boy am I craving some of that!' _And obviously I meant the alcohol.

"So search and destroy, right?" I unhooked my arm from his and sighed. There was that gleam in his eyes again, he was about to lead a man to confession. Well, I didn't fancy being there to see that. "Go get 'em tiger." I said patting Sherlock on the shoulder.

He looked at me like I was crazy and shook his head, marching up to Thaddeus like a general commanding an army. Right then I actually felt sorry for the poor guy.

"Well, fancy seeing you here _Professor_."

I jumped about ten feet in the air when I heard Mycroft Holmes behind me, the real Mycroft Holmes. His voice had that double-edged blade tone to it again, and I cringed.

"Ah! Mister Holmes!" I turned to greet him with the biggest, fakest, most innocent smile I could muster. I was so screwed.

"When I heard that a second Mycroft Holmes had arrived I was curious, then when your name was declared my fear was cemented." Mycroft was as posh looking as ever, suit and umbrella on hand, but he did have that dark and dangerous jungle cat look in his eyes.

'_How did I end up getting tangled in with such a dangerous family?'_ I wondered, wishing dearly I had some pockets to hide my dreadfully sweaty palms. Instead I had to hide my hands behind my back and smile, hoping the makeup I was wearing would mask my fears.

"Already you seem to be trapped in my brother's web." Mycroft's tone is mocking, but only lightly. It almost sounded as if he was taunting me. Why, I had no idea, to tell the truth, I wouldn't doubt it if his voice had gotten stuck in that tone.

"Well you did tell me to let him fix me, Mister Holmes. Or should I call you Lord Holmes?" I tilt my head at him and grin, not letting his words get to me. He was just another posh prick after all, no reason to get worked over.

"True enough, and _no_, Mister Holmes is just fine." He concedes lightly, an intimidating smile on his face, as he lets his umbrella tap the ground. "That does not mean, however, that you should get yourself involved in my brother's affairs." He adds darkly, glowering at me as if I was a plague upon mankind.

I gape, my anger making a swift and hasty return. "You son of a bitch!" I yell, having heads turn my way. I strut up to Mycroft and grab his expensive silk lined collar. "You really think I had any choice! Your brother drags me along like luggage and he's still kinder than you!" I narrow my eyes; rage bubbling over inside of me like it always does. I try and keep my calm but I've never been very good at being peaceful.

Mycroft's brows raise and he holds up a hand. I look at the hand, confused. Until, that is, I realize there's a guard with a gun at my back. I gulp and the guard backs away to Mycroft's request. My body goes rigid, tense, as I slowly let go of his collar, hands raised, and back away. I didn't feel like getting shot just because Mycroft freaking Holmes pissed me off.

"No need to worry Professor. As long as you partner yourself with my brother you will not be harmed." He drops the hint, literally, as his eyes find Sherlock interrogating Thaddeus over by the bar. The people that had been staring at my outburst back off and pretend nothing had happened. I grind my teeth and try to ignore being ignored.

I watch Mycroft carefully, almost having forgotten that this man has the power of a god in his hands. Paper bags wouldn't even help me if I started having a panic attack right now. But, even though I feel the impending overload, when I look over my shoulder to see Sherlock getting drunk with Thaddeus in an attempt to loosen him up for questioning, I feel myself calm. I even laugh as I watch Sherlock tripping all over himself, pretending to be more drunk then he really was, so that he would ensure Thaddeus' trust in him.

"I'll give you one thing Mycroft, your brother's one hell of a man." I say, rather sure of myself, as I sigh and watch the consulting detective pretend to be a fool.

"Yes, I suppose he is."

**-X-**

Moments later I find myself alone, Mycroft mingling in with the crowd like the aristocrat he is. Several hands wonder toward my bum as I wonder about, but none make it all the way. The dress does make me stick out a bit; I have to admit, especially since all the other women are wearing lighter colors like white or pink. The red suits me though; it was like a giant STOP sign hanging all over me. It warned people that I was not to be messed with.

By now I've found myself something stiff to drink, something much stronger than the champagne the servers were carrying around. I've also dabbled into some of the finger foods as well, because, to tell the truth, I am starving!

It's about thirty minutes later that I get completely bored and start heading back to the bar, surely Sherlock was done by now.

"Oh, Kyle!"

The voice suddenly calling my name makes my whole body freeze. Chills go up my spine and my blood begins to run cold again.

Allen appears before me, crystal glass of scotch dangling in his hands. His arm unwinds from a busty blonde, he waves her off and she scowls at me as she stomps away.

"What a pleasure to see you again."

"Go fuck yourself Allen." I seethe as I begin to stomp away myself. But before I can get very far Allen's hand is around my wrist, pulling me back with the strength of a body builder. I yelp lightly, not expecting him to be so strong, as my back hits his chest.

"That's a very rude thing to say Kyle, I know mother taught you better." As I feel Allen's words on the neck of my skin my muscles go taut. I try taking deep even breaths but my calm was starting to crumble. "You know I think you should come back home Kyle, let me teach you some respect."

I breathe through my gritted teeth as I grab his hand and throw it off my wrist. "I'm never going back! AND YOU CAN'T MAKE ME!" My voice reaches new volumes, tears lightly stinging my eyes. I look at him and he looks into me, suddenly that cocky smile falls and he looks ashamed.

"Mi dispiace Kyle." Allen whispers as he puts a strong hand tightly on my shoulder. I growl.

"No il vostro non, bastardo!" My tongue slips into my second language like putting on an old but well fitted glove. People start to congregate towards us, but none too closely.

"Sembri bella sorella stasera." He says, a large, fake, and innocent smiling lining his mischievous face.

I glare at him, not a hint of amusement lining my face as he swiftly changed the subject. I just stand there, arms crossed, glowering at him and his tux-ed out self. Who was he trying to impress? He was probably just trying to get laid.

"Lasciami in pace." I murmured as I began to walk away again, forgetting about the hand on my shoulder. The hand tightens none too gently and I get pulled back.

"Io so chi è veramente Lionel." Is whispered into my ear, I feel the Earth give way beneath me as Allen says this. "Lui non è in realtà il vostro editore. E 'il tuo broker di informazioni. E ho pensato che la mia sorellina era innocente. Venite a scoprire che è stato il gioco per tutto il tempo." I close my eyes tightly, my whole world crumbling.

My brother knew; my brother knows the truth about Lionel! _'No!'_

"Excuse me." Allen abruptly turns around and my eyes spin to see Sherlock behind Allen's shoulder. "Do you mind if I cut in?" He seemed as elegant as always, almost as if not a drop of alcohol was in his veins.

At first I didn't understand what Sherlock meant by cut in, I thought he was going to properly trounce my brother, but instead he just held out a hand. All my brother did was sneer, hissing like the damn snake he was. I shrugged off his hand, shaking like a leaf, and his hand fell away as if he had been burned. Then as fast, and as inconspicuously as I could, I took Sherlock's hand.

Swiftly, Sherlock led me into a foxtrot, all I could do was try to keep up with him and hopefully not step on his feet. I just kept staring down, remembering the blade in my boots, wondering why I hadn't stabbed my brother. There was no way I could look Sherlock in the eye now, after all that.

"Who was he?" Sherlock asked gently, his voice whispering in secret as we danced. His hand was on my left shoulder, leading me, his other hand on my waist. If I weren't so shaken up I would have been blushing.

I could feel Allen's gaze on me, his glare intense as he analyzed Sherlock and me. My shivering didn't stop, even when I knew Allen wouldn't pull anything more in public. I'd caused one too many up roars today, thank you, luckily the rich were ever so ignorant when it came to other people's problems.

Sherlock, however, gently caressed my shoulder, soothing me, calming me down so that I could talk without falling over myself. "He's…." I take a deep shaky breath, Sherlock waits. "No one." I finished.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, I know he had an idea of who Allen was, but did he have the right one?

"You promised." He hissed, not in the mood to play around with me.

I felt tears pricking my eyes again, but I stilled myself before they could fall. I had promised, and Sherlock had promised to stop taking coca so that I'd keep my side of the bargain. Sighing, I nodded.

"Not here." I whispered. "Later." I assured him and looked back up into his aqua colored eyes. He nodded with silent understanding and we just continued to dance until the music ended.

When the music stopped Sherlock, ignoring the scrutiny coming from my brother, took my arm and helped me back home.

After a shower and concert from Sherlock's violin, I once again found myself asleep on the detective's couch, with no monsters to plague my dreams.

**-X-**

**Author's Note: **_I had a hard time writing that last bit, things to catch up on and all._

_I'd like to send a huge thank you to Brandon and Sora for reviewing! I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as the last._

_Yes there is such thing as a Kahr CW9._

_Mister Armonia AKA Mister Harmony in Italian._

_And yes the 7% solution is taken straight from the Sign of Four._

_Also thousand piece puzzles do exist, I have tried my hand at one, and they are incredibly hard!_

_Adam Young AKA the antichrist from Good Omens is a teacher's aid._

_The red evening gown described does exist and is around 600 dollars._

_No I'm not putting up translations for the Italian because I don't want you to know what they said. I want the impending doom of the truth about Lionel to hang over your heads. ^_^_

_The next chapter will be the last part of "The Sign of Two", so if there are any mysterious you want me to do next throw it my way. I would ensure the immediate continuation of this but the only reason why I've finished this so quickly was because it was already half way finished when I posted chapter 2, so I don't know when chapter 4 will be done. Plus I need to post another chapter of Revolutionary Tactics. _

**R&R PLEASE!**


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